


For angels to fly

by justmeandmysillystuff



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicide Attempt, The power of music, musician lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justmeandmysillystuff/pseuds/justmeandmysillystuff
Summary: Life can be beautiful, as cliché as it sounds. There's art in every corner, every word, and every smile. Music lingers in the air and puffs up our lungs.Sometimes, we just need to be reminded how to breathe...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> heyyy I know I should be working on Pay 1, Take 2, but I got inspired by a Tumblr gifset by PrinzCake and I wrote this short story for my literature club (which means I originally wrote it in spanish...which was a pain to translate. Feel free to point out any mistakes).  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy it...I know it's short and simple, but I loved writing it.

People are moving and so are the trains. They come and go, in and out of the landscape at their own frantic will. But, at the same time, they are still. They are a constant, permanent picture; just like the sky, the railways and the murmurs of the wind. The snow doesn’t seem to be a burden for the busy feet, which move around kicking ice without a problem. Boots and worn-out moccasins get lost in the sea of legs, they avoid stepping onto each other in an almost choreographic way, and move on with the determination of who has somewhere to be.

Looking downwards, sticking his nose above the thick material of his scarf, Keith sees his own feet. Firm, buried in the snow.

He has never felt that calm at the station before. Maybe it has something to do with the fact he never waited for a train he isn’t going to ride. The frenzy of routine, of clocks and tickets and schedules, has never felt so foreign to him. The bodies that run around, masked in winter’s garments and making their way through the multitude; can’t touch him. They blend within themselves and the pale wintry view; wafts of people, of jackets and conversations he can’t really hear.

He doesn’t know what time is it, neither does he care. He just waits for any train to be announced and heads towards the platform, obedient. Walking in auto-pilot, with the calm of who falls asleep at the wheel. He knows what he is doing, the decision is made.

The white sunlight is almost hospital-like, dim and filtrated by the clouds. It shines in even waves, unfocused, only interrupted by the large space between the platforms.  A mother that’s waiting next to him holds her daughter and pulls her away from the rails. No one holds Keith. No one stops him from sinking his heels on the border with his toes hanging free, letting his weight and the wind decide if he holds on or if he falls.

It will only take one second. One breath, one move, and it’ll be over. He just has to wait, close his eyes and let himself be deafened by the whispers of the storm, the echoes of the voices and the railway’s creak. And the sound of the train, getting louder and louder.

_“White lips, pale face, breathing in snowflakes. Burnt lungs, sour taste”_

The sudden riff of an acoustic guitar scratches through the silence of the crowd.

A serene voice follows right after, excuses itself gently through the wind’s howls and people’s noisy footsteps. Something that sort of feels like instinct manages to pull Keith to rise up his head and look forward, to stare at the musician that’s playing for some coins in the platform in front.

_“Light's gone, day's end, struggling to pay rent. Long nights, strange men”_

Long and tan fingers tickle the strings of an acoustic guitar. From his wrists hang many colorful bracelets, and from his shoulders a green jacket that looks way too thin and old. It disorients Keith. His presence is so sudden, so foreign, that it gives him trouble to understand it as part of the landscape.

But his nose is red, the climate’s blows tug from his clothes and his hair, and his singing echoes through the hole between platforms.

_“And they say, he's in the Class A Team, stuck in his daydream. Been this way since eighteen, but lately…”_

People around laugh and greet each other. They walk, they move forwards.  And Keith is so still, so frozen and so inert, concentrated in the warmth of the melody that’s consuming him. He can hear his own breathing. He sees the fog coming out from his mouth, and for the first time he’s aware of his lips getting frostbite. His socks are soaked, his toes are numb, he forgot his beanie at home.

He feels cold.

_“his face seems, slowly sinking, wasting, crumbling like pastries. And they scream…”_

He feels cold and he feels everything at once. He feels the light of day shining straight into his eyes, he feels the stares, the murmurs. He feels hunger and nausea, the scent of cheap hot dogs from that cart in the corner, and he feels sorry for not remembering the last time he enjoyed some junk food. He feels time is too fast, the world’s too big and the sky is infinite. The hole between the platforms is way too deep. He feels vertigo, the quivering of his lips and his pulse, something wet and warm rolling down his cheeks.

He sees the train pass by, the image of the musician staying permanent and real through the moving windows, and the only fact Keith thought he knew for certain is suddenly his only question.

What is he doing?

_“the worst things in life come free to us, cause we're just under the upper hand, and go mad for a couple grams. And she don't want to go outside tonight”_

He gives one step backward, and two and three and twenty. He walks outside the station and back in through the other platform with clumsy frozen feet. His hands fish through every zipper, every pocket, in the desperate search for something, anything he could tip that artist. But he forgot his wallet at home, and all he could find was a miserable, wrinkly dollar.

_“And in a pipe he flies to the Motherland, or sells love to another man. It's too cold outside, for angels to fly”_

He listens to him sing the final verses, the guitar bumping onto his knee as he sets the rhythm with his foot. Keith knows he’s too close, that he should maybe react, talk to him, say something. But he’s unable to move, he’s frozen again, even if for completely different reasons.

The guitarist’s eyes go the bill in his hands, then to the tip jar by his feet, and then to the money again. Keith’s hesitation seems to puzzle him, as if paying one filthy dollar was the only logical outcome. As if it were fair.

The song is over, the wind swallows the final notes and Keith swallows spit. He sees he’s about to start singing again, and he immediately ducks to leave his only cash in the jar. The guy smiles at him, with eyes as clear and warm as his voice, and he even has the audacity to thank him. And Keith doesn’t know how to say no, that it’s _him_ who should be saying his thankyous; that a bill is way too lightweight and beauty is way too heavy. Very, very heavy. Enough to keep a single storm from blowing a spirit away.

He turns around and leaves the station behind. The voice of the musician walks him round the corner, and Keith hums the rest of the melody on his way home.


	2. Ok, so...I filmed this

Hey!!! So I recently had a subject at uni where we were supposed to make short films and I kind of turned this fic into a script...and my classmates voted for it??? So we got to film it. I'm really really happy with how it turned out, so it would be great if you guys could check it out. 

[CLICK HERE TO WATCH IT](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TQioxwDWicw), it has english subs I personally wrote, worry not.

**Author's Note:**

> Check PrinzCake's post here: http://prinzcake.tumblr.com/post/154889556428/keith-scuffed-his-boots-on-the-snow-littered  
> And my Tumblr here: https://life-love-and-alcohol.tumblr.com/  
> Pretty please leave some comment? it makes me really happy and helps me improve


End file.
